


Gashes and Slashes

by Blakpaw



Series: My Undead Junker Boyfriend™ [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (during a monologue Jamie refers to at least two people as whores), Bad omens, Death, Dr. Jamison Junkenstein - Freeform, Drinking, Finished, He cooes at a disembodied head briefly, Jamie doesn't know how to people, Jamie needs help, Junkenstein's Monster - Freeform, Junkenstein's Revenge setting, King reinhardt, Knight Mako, M/M, Prequal, References to Emotional Abuse, Slurs, Social Issues, Suffering, The Angst of the Plot has arrived, The plot has finally been kicked into motion, Unhappy Childhood, Witch Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, a bit graphic in chapter 3, and Mako is just very quite, dealing with grief alone, emotional issues, grave robbing, in later chapters there will be experiments gone wrong, lonelyness, loss of limb, physical and mental trauma, prequel to Itches and Stiches, references to self medical treatment, references to self testing, ressurection, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-01-04 11:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blakpaw/pseuds/Blakpaw
Summary: Dr. Jamison Junkenstein doesn't want to be alone.He won't be forever.(I'd recommend reading this before Itches and Stitches for Plot purposes)





	1. Chapter 1

Jamison Junkenstien always has, and always will, stand by his statement that he is not insane. He’s just a little... eccentric is all, he’s simply a man with a very estranged living style, thank you very much.

He will admit things do get extremely tiring at times, though, working for the king all day and night. People doubted his machines would work, and so far people were right. He knew he was close to a breakthrough, soon he’d get them working and functioning, but for now he must simply work until he completes his master pieces.

Sadly the rest of the kingdom, the King included, think he’s nothing more than a crazy over glorified blacksmith. Whilst this may be discouraging to most, especially after all the failures he’s experienced, the trauma he’s put his body through trying to complete his works, leaving him, currently, with a bad limp, and a slightly stiff hand, he has yet to give up his dreams of creating machines that can work in place of humans, an endless supply of loyal workers. He knows it will all pay off, he will be famous, one day.

Or so are his hopes. For now, he’ll have to stick with making helpful objects that make the job easier. Currently he’s upon one of his trusted steeds, Rutherlind, a slightly older, huge grey and white paint horse, dragging a wagon full of potentially life changing prototypes. He knows the king will probably except a good portion of them, so long as they make his life that much easier. The ride isn’t long, maybe an hour or two from his huge home atop a hill, through town, and up to the mighty gates of the kingdome at a casual pace. He’s getting nervous, as he always does, approaching the gates, worried the prototypes will fail, the king will grow tired of him and throw him from the castle walls, jobless and stripped of his title, his funds. He takes in a deep breath and sighs, the gates being opened and Rutherlind takes his giant steps within the gates as he begins to mutter things under his breath, components for his creations, elements, everything he knows. He slides off his horse, a few workers of the castle coming out to help him lift the wagon and drag it to the throne room, he feels a little bit of pride noting they’re wearing specially designed leg and arm bracers meant to increase the amount of weight the wearer can lift. A success, it seems, so far.

He takes a deep breath, straightens his hunched form out to his full height, smooths back his dirty blond hair, before dramatically throwing the doors open and smiling widely at the king.

\--

He yelps as he lands rather roughly on his ass, cringing as it makes his bad leg sore from the force.

“AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOUR TRASH IS WORKING, JUNKENSTEIN! OR NEXT TIME I WILL FIRE YOU!”

He scowls angrily, slowly pushing himself up, grumbling under his breath.

So, okay, maybe he should have tested it at home first, but the king has such a tight schedule, it’s not his fault he didn’t have time to make sure the damn thing wouldn’t explode. Speaking of which his hand is still sore, he’s thankful his gloves are fire retardant. He needs to work on shock absorption next, to avoid possibly fracturing any bones.

He looks up, still trying to gather his bearings. He pauses when he notes one of the king's guards have taken notice of him, he’s huge, maybe not taller than the king, but damn close to the same height, an impressive feat. What’s more impressive is the shape of the armour around his waist, huge and special made to protect the massive gut of it’s wearer, gigantic gloved hands clutched tight around a spear, and then there’s his odd helmet. The front sticks out a bit more than normal face pieces, it almost looks distinctly pig like, and yet still made to fit the head of a human, the top of it has a crest of bright silver feathers. He isn’t really aware he’s short circuited and started full on staring at the giant until one of the large hands waves those metal clad fingers in front of his face.

“You alright there?” the deep voice rumbles, slightly reverberating in the mask, and Jamie squeaks cheeks going warm and red and he quickly nods, at a loss for words, his barely-grown-back eyebrows raised up on his head in flustered shock. The larger man pauses for a long moment, armour clattering a bit as a slight chuckle ripples from him “You know, whatever the king says, I think yer pretty damn smart. Can’t expect any on t’ be perfect.” he states simply, before he straightens himself out and turns back to face outwards, towards the gates.

Jamie finds himself smiling a bit “Ye can say that again mate,” he chuckled and paused “and ah… if ye don’ mind me askin’, whot’s yer name big-un’?” he wrings his fingers together, blush slowly subsiding. The big guy snorts slightly and shrugs his shoulders in a more casual manner “Fer now you can call me Roadhog, Dr.” Jamie raises a brow and shrugs “Suppose ah’ll be seeing ye around, Roadhog.” and with that he goes to retrieve Rutherlind and his wagon, giving a slight wave, smiling a little bit.

He definitely wouldn’t mind seeing that strange, gargantuan guard again.

\--

Wide awake and yet exhausted, the good doctor finds himself sketching, deep in thought, trying to sooth his mind from the hundreds of equations, possibilities and designs that have been thrumming through his head for hours. He’s got oil and grease all over, his eyebrows have once again been removed, soot plastered in a distinct goggle shape on his face, lips chapped, and lab coat dirtied. He sighs softly, still scribbling away in his journal, drawing a picture of the awe striking knight, to add visuals to his recount of today’s events.

Dr. Jamison Junkenstein has never been a man of sexual desire, never really found himself interested intimately with others, in fact intimacy and relations in general have always been a difficult subject for him. Of all the studies he’s perfected, sociability is not one. And yet this “Roadhog” fellow makes his heart flutter, makes his face warm, and his already weak knees almost buckle. Yet, he hasn’t even seen the giants face, barely heard his voice, and has yet to learn his name.

He finds it irritatingly irrational, and yet fascinating, as most irrational things seem to be. Much like his unexplained, unrooted, obsession with flames and destruction, something he indulges in often, mostly to experiment with his emotions. Just like now, this is a personal experiment he will have to conduct on himself, as he has done many times in the past (not always with the best of outcomes). He leans back, finishing up his sketch, before carefully closing his journal, as not to smear the drawing.

His head is still reeling with ideas, but it’s quieter now, more manageable. He heads off towards the bath, cleansing himself of soot, grime, and oil, before redressing in a sleeping gown and heading for bed, his thoughts shifting from equations and inventions to that rumbly deep voice and that massive armour clad gut.

He lays in his huge, cold, lonely bed and settles in, pulling the blanket up and over his head. He closes his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like months, sleep isn’t a struggle, it happily takes him away into a land of dreams. His head is still filled with designs and blueprints, and though he dreams of his creations he still feels at peace, calm and happy. He’s barely aware that the massive knight's words of praise are softly rumbling at him, those big, metal clad hands patting his shoulder kindly. And though it is only a dream, Dr. Jamison Junkenstein feels like, for just a small moment, he isn’t alone anymore, that someone in this god forsaken kingdom actually cares, actually believes in him.

When he wakes he sighs, feeling deflated and defeated rather than rejuvenated by his dream. Because he knows it was only that, a dream. No matter how much he may wish it was real, it’s not. With a long, low sigh the good doctor drags himself out of bed, groaning as he bends down to massage the calf of his bad leg before hobbling down the stairs to get to work.

If he wants his dream to come true, he’s got to make it happen.

And he’ll give anything to make it happen, anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Roadhog' and the Doctor meet again.

Dr. Jamison learned a long time ago how cruel the people of Adlersbrunn could be, he grew up in the village, and his whole life he was always outcasted, for his strange disconnection with almost all people, and because of his mother. She was often called the village whore, and it was not far off from the truth. He’d had many siblings, almost all of different fathers, and though his mother was married she was not a loyal woman. His father, at least the one that raised him, had been a man of richer means, which he supposes he should count as a blessing, as it allowed him to take a few beginning courses that would lead him down to his path of science.

That did not mean he loved his father, quite the opposite even. His father had been cruel and cold to his children, and as a middle child, somewhere between the seventh and ninth, he was often left to himself. Most of his time, where most children would play, learn the social skills he so greatly lacked, he’d be closed up in the library, nose deep in a book, jotting down notes, and beginning to put things together, invent and understand new things the people of his time had never heard of.

But despite this, despite his best efforts and his first hand experience with the cruelty of his home town, it never got any less difficult or painful for the good doctor, because for all his life he has done naught but give, and give, and give to the people. Yet, they feared him, hated him, because he was so secluded, so unknown to them, and so terrifyingly smart, to them the words he spoke where in tongues of some foreign language, and even other well taught noble men barely understood his mad babble. It was little help his name had been slandered from birth due to his mother's inability to keep her legs shut for more than a day. His father had not helped much, having called him insane in his younger days due to his vivid, still existent visions of living metal men.

He could not control much in his life, but he knew he was close to controlling something, an artificial life made by his hand, and his alone.

Yet, knowing he was going to soon do great things did not dull the ache of loneliness in his heart, and he found himself retreating to the local pub for a strong drink, dressed in more casual clothing, dirty, brown, and baggy on his small form, shawl over his shoulder and hood pulled over his head.in poor attempts to protect himself from the shit weather. There was rarely a night when it wasn’t raining or brewing a storm in Adlersbrunn.

He glanced up, eyes narrowing at the woman in the doorway, a whore, he’d recognize one anywhere, and made sure to slide around her, not daring to touch her, as he entered the local pub. Wolf Woods wasn’t much, he’d admit, but it had good, strong alcohol, and to him that’s what mattered. He sat himself down at the bar, waving a waitress over, ordering a strong ale and a decent enough meal. (he was beginning to have troubles holding food down and he rather not waste money on a meal he wouldn’t be able to finish.)

It’s not instant, but it’s damn close, within a couple seconds he hears that deep booming voice, and his eyes shoot up. Beside him, there’s a giant of a man, he has long silver hair pulled up tight to his head, tired, deep green eyes, a thick neck covered in grey stubble, almost black, thick eyebrows, and from what he can see of his chest an amazing amount of dark black hair. He’s currently rumbling something to another patriot, huge hand wrapped tight around a wrist halfway in the large pouch at his side.

“Ye might wonna think twice ‘bout tryin’ ta steal from me.” he pulls his thick lips up into a snarl, threatening and mad. Jamison’s cheeks go a little warm again, and the man being held goes pale as can be, nodding vigorously he says “W-won’t happen again, my bad yeah?” and offers a guilty, terrified smile. The giant looks hims over, eyes flicking up and down, before letting go and huffing dangerously at him. The man is quick to rush out the pub door.

The good doctor shuffles in his seat a bit and smiles, adjusting his goggles, he looks a little strange with the small amount of fuzz being in place were his thick bushy eyebrows should be, and he clears his throat again, trying his best to instigate a conversation with the minor conversation skills he has.

“R-Roadhog, w-wasn’t et?” he questions, tilting himself a bit. That get’s the man's attention and he turns to face him, brows furrowed, lips pulled down into an almost frown. He gives a similar inspection as he had the earlier thief before he reaches up and pushes Junkenstein’s hood of his head. He says but one word in response, once recognizing him, “Yeah.” and then turns back to his mug. Now most people, socially smart people, would take this as a que to let the man be, but Jamison Junkenstein is not most people.

“How ya been big’un?” he question, smiling, in return he get’s a sceptical look “Why ‘r ya askin’?” he grumbles out. The smaller shrugs a bit, “S’ polite, ain’t it?” he questions, raising one of his own half grown back brows. He gets a grumble and a shrugs “ S’pose.” he takes a long drink from his mug before returning to their conversation “Been fine, ain’t been doin’ much.” he scratched his cheek, and he’s yet to look at the doctor since he removed the hood.

He nods a bit, thanking the waitress as she places his food and drink down, and he takes a sip of his ale before turning back to look at “Roadhog”, as he prefers to be called, “Well I’ve been roight busy, so consider yerself lucky!” he chuckles softly a bit, “Don’t think I’ve slept a full night all week.” remembering how tired he is has him taking a long drink from his mug.

“Don’t think ye should be drinking when yer tired.” Roadhog rumbles up, snorting, “Specially with yer bum knee, gonna fall flat on yer arse and everyone's gonna laugh at ye.” it’s supposed to be a joke he knows that much at least, but it still makes that prickling filing jolt through his chest, and he sets his mug down, slouching, and he chuckles dryly. He pokes at his food for a moment, softly muttering, “No different from normal then?” he stuffs a forkful in his mouth, no longer looking up. He hears the man’s clothes rustle in a shrug rather than seeing it, “Hard not to laugh when the smart mon o’ the town’s getting too drunk to stand. S’posed to be good at regulating themselves, n’ all that.” he takes another drink. Jamison just shrugs, feeling a little deflated.

The silence is deadly for a few moments before Roadhog speaks up again, “ ‘N all seriousness though, ‘f ya need it I can walk ya home. Don’t want the kings only scientists gettin’ killed ‘cus he fell of the ledge of his own property.” he snorts to himself, and Jamie gives a weak chuckle, shaking his head, more in disbelief. He stares for a moment, trying to process it before he says, barely able to catch himself, “Ain’t nobody ever offered t’ do that before, big un, made it every other time eh?”

“There’s a first, and a last, fer evreythin’.” he shoots back, still smiling a bit. Jamie laughs and shrugs, “If it makes ye feel better knowing I get home tonight, be me guest.”

They chat a bit more, meaningless and getting increasingly more slurred on the good doctors end, before the giant of a man begins to lead him back up the path to his home, hand on his shoulder to steady him. Jamie bumps against his gut a few times, each time wanting to snuggle into it and verbally slurring about how nice and warm it is, it’d make a great pillow.

Once at his home he offers to get him tea, but ‘Hoggie’, as Jamison has been calling him since his face started turning beer tinged, simply asks where his bedroom is. If he were a more sociable man he might be making some innuendos at the moment, but he’s more of a polite man, trying to be a gracious host even as he’s being half carried up his stairs to his room.

Good, big old Hog pulls the blankets over him, darkens up his room so he can sleep, and leaves to let him be. Though he does steal himself that cup of tea offered before leaving, writing the good doctor a note telling him so, making sure to sign with the name he’d given the doctor.

Mako isn’t a very sociable man, he doesn't like to talk a lot, but he’s kind enough, he’ll do selfless things from the bottom of his heart, just the way he’s always been. He think’s he rather likes Dr. Junkenstien, he seems nice enough, hasn’t been rude in anyway so far, not that he’s saying they’ll become friends, but good acquaintances at least, the fact the doctor showed up to the same bars as him tonight was a fluke, he wasn’t a man who drank often.

With a slightly tired sigh, he begins to work his way home, towards the castle, where he’s been staying since he’s been knighted. On his way to his quarters he feeds the pigs in the local stable, pats the all on the head and lets them snuff at his clothes a bit, before lumbering off inside.

No, Mako isn’t very talkative, but he think’s the good doctor talks enough for both of them. And he’s okay with that, doesn’t find it nearly as annoying as many other might suspect he would.

Oh yes, he and the doctor were going to get along just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, chapter two has arrived!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds, bonding, and omens.

It was a pain like no other he’d ever felt before, writhing on the floor of his own home, struggling for breath. He dug the black charred tips of his fingers into the flesh of his leg, holding back another scream. He had to focus, he HAD too, this was a moment of life or death. He dragged himself across the floor, leaving a streak of blood in his wake, his right leg only half cauterized by the heat of the electrical explosion, he was going pale and trembling, he almost felt like the electricity was still running through his system, causing him to shake and tremble.

He collapsed on the ground, too far from his medical equipment, his muscles didn’t feel strong enough to keep dragging him. He lifted his arm to his face, biting down on the sleeve and tearing away a large strip as best as he could, it hurt his teeth, but not nearly as much as his leg did. He quickly sat up, typing a tourniquet off just above what was left of his knee as best as he could, before laying down trying to catch his breath, calm his heart. He absolutely did not enjoy the way the world was dimming at the corner of his eyes.

\--

He awake several hours later, still on the floor of his home, still in pain, but, for now, it was just a little more bearable. He managed to get to some of his medical supplies, and an extra saw, which he promptly heated up. He propped himself on the wall, and looked down at what was left of his leg, dark with the loss of blood due to the turnaquite. This was going to be a very, very long day.

\--

The process had not been fun, between the amputation and the stitching Junkenstien had lost even more blood, he was still heaving every breathe, and was plagued with tremors through every part of his body, twitching and shaking. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he also knew he needed to get help, and fast.

Dr. Jamison Junkenstein refused to die like this, refused to die before unlocking the clues to artificial life. Oh no, this was not how his story ended.

\--

Almost four and a half hours later, Junkenstein was awkwardly sprawled on Rutherlind’s back, to tired to sit up straight, but he made it to the local doctors house, he’d been dry heaving the whole way. On his way to the stables, Junkenstein has caught his reflection in the shiny metal surface of an unfinished creation, his pale hair had gone a disturbing shock of white, he knew that couldn’t be a good sign, not at all.

He called out for the doctor, still trembling a she clung to Rutherland’s neck, pressing his face into his mane. He was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep, not yet, he was still in danger. The doctor ran out to the from, eyes wide as he took in the sight of the local scientist barely clinging onto life, quick to call his apprentice out to get him inside.

\--

The next time he woke, he found he’d been asleep for nearly three days, he has memories of being woken every now and then to drink and eat, but they’re foggy and full of delirious fever warped recollection. He found he still trembled and twitched, and he still felt extraordinarily weak, lifting his head took so much effort it left him panting.

The new of the good doctors condition had traveled fast, and you best believe many rumours spread, accusations on his mental state and his inventions reliability. For a while it almost seemed he might lose all credibility he had in the first place.

\--

Word reached the castle fairly quick, and though they may not know each other well, Mako had a caring soul and left to see the doctor as soon as he could, which was, much to his dismay, five days after the incident had occurred. Upon walking into what passed for the local hospital, he was met with the sight of multiple empty beds, Adlersbrunn, despite it’s shit weather, wasn’t a place to commonly wracked with epidemics, it was easy to spot the good doctor, paler than before, trembling with the blankets pulled tight around his body, and his once blond hair strikingly white. The tips of his fingers were still back with electrical burns, sensitive to the touch on the pad it seemed, and his eyes, those normally vibrant eyes are wide and trembling, the good doctor looked absolutely mad with that paranoid expression on his face.

He walks over, finding his urgency has faded into worry, uncertainty even, and he’s careful, making sure to take things slow as Dr. Juneknstein’s eyes shoot up to look at him. His lips twitch awkwardly as he smiles at him, and he shakily, and gently, gives a little wave.

“H-H-Hog, w-w-wasn’t e-expectn-n ya h-here.” he stutters out, throat randomly clenching and spasming with the tremors. He just shrugs, and gently pulls up a chair to sit beside him.

“Heard whot happened, thought you might need some compeny, eh?” he ofers a small smile. Junkenstien returns it “The-the d-d-d-d-,” he cuts himself off to clear his throat and try again “d-d-doc’s be-been g-good compan-ny, b-b-but I d-d-do enjoy th-the ges-ges-,” he cuts himself off again to try another word “the th-thought.”

Mako just give him a small nod, sitting there for a moment. Junkenstein closes his eyes, resting his head back. He looks so drained, and even as he grows weaker, occasionally trying to speak up but getting to tired, he trembles, even as he sleeps. Mako can’t imagine it’s comfortable, the constant spasming. He wates a while, and though the visit was short he doesn’t mind, the good doctor seems like he needs all the rest he can get.

\--

Months pass by and the doctor slowly gets better, the tremors get better, more manageable, his stutter dies down, though some words are still difficult for him to form, and his fingers get just a little less sensitive. But his paranoid eyes, and the hair, never get much better, and his leg only seems to get worse. A few times during his visits, Mako had had to hold the doctor in place whilst they administer sedatives, the good doctor screaming in agony, pumped so full of painkillers it’s a wonder he's not dead. But for the most part he’s getting better, asked Mako to bring him supplies, and two months after the incident he began to build a leg. His hands were still to trembly to properly build something to fancy, so he threw looks out the window and focused mostly on functionality.

And for the first time ever he had help. Mako, who did in fact tell him his real name after a couple weeks, was there every step of the way, every break down, the long nights he couldn’t sleep because of the pain, the frustration,. For once, Jamison Junkenstien wasn’t alone, and it was so very very easy to start calling Mako his friend.

After nearly a year of being out of commission, the good doctor, with his arm looped in Mako’s, hobbled home with him, and he couldn’t thank him enough. His food was rotten and house dusty, and there was still blood in the laboratory, but Mako gladly stayed to talk, make sure the good doctor would be alright, and he gave him a gentle hug good bye.

That night, Jamison, with a bit of struggle, Jamison went up to his room, pulled his journal out, and wrote pages upon pages of his relocation of the months of events, of Mako, of how he built his leg, of how Mako helped, and it went on and on, and for every one paragraph not involving Mako another three written were.

On the last page, as he always does, he drew a picture, of course it was of Mako, that slight smile and those low set brows, and that perfect stubble, and wonderful hair, and those amazingly broad shoulders, and he smiled the whole time, still a little shaky, but content and happy, he felt good, genuinely, wholly good, like nothing could tear him down from his happy pedestal.

He lay himself to bed, holding one of his pillows close, snuggling it like a child would a toy, and he dreamt. He dreamt of Mako again, just the two of them, happy, big, beautiful Mako helping him every step of the way to his creation, praising him.

If only Dr. Jamison Junkenstein was better with people, was better at understanding his own feelings, was better at understanding other’s feelings, if only he could foresee the event’s to come, maybe just maybe, he could have his happy ending.

But he is none of those things, and he can not foretell the future, and therefore his happy ending is still so very, very far from coming true.

If only he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a spur of the moment chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War, death, and grief.

War can oftentimes seem to start out of nowhere, event behind closed doors that only kings know of until, next thing they knew, a war was starting. A war that required all hands that could be given, including the good doctor’s help. The kingdome changed, for better or for worse he doesn’t know, but finally his creations rose to life, months into the years long war, and they fought for the kingdome. The intents of his robots had been for good, and only good, but their first acts were violent war. Of course, the king was victorious, the doctor’s machines going up against unprepared fools. But there were still casualties, and solemnly, the king's messenger approached him, making a bit of a face as he handed him the letter. Mako’s hand writing was addressed to him on the letter, and he sat himself down to read through it.

Jamison had only a glimmer of hope for good news, but he had not seen much of Mako in the three years the war had raged the land, and as he read the letter his hope died entirely.

“To my good friend,  
Doctor Jamison Junkenstein,

If you’ve received this letter it means I won’t be coming back. It means I either went missing, or I’m dead. I’m writing this for you, the first day of the war, just incase. But I hope, for obvious reasons, this letter never makes it into your hands.

But, if you’re reading this it obviously has and I can only say I am sorry I had to leave you so soon. I am sorry I could not stand by your side longer, and continue to watch you grow. I want you to know, Jamison, that I’m proud of you, that I think you’re the most brilliant man in all of the kingdome, and you don’t get nearly enough praise for what you have done, what you will do.

I want you to know, that even though I can not return to you, I love you. I love you so much, that year in the hospital with you, I saw a side of you no one else got to see, and I feel honored to have gotten to see it. I love you, Jamison Junkenstien, more than anything, and I wish that we could've continued on, I want you to know, that even though I’m gone, I love you, even from where I am. As I am now, waiting to be marched out into war, I am planning to marry you the instant this war is over… and I am sorry this does not get-”

The rest is unreadable, the ink smudged from new, and old, tears, and Jamie is starting to hiccup, trying to hold back wails as he curls around the letter, clutched tight in his hand. It was in that moments, much, much too late, that he realized he was in love. Jamison Junkenstein was in love, and in the moment he realized it everything came crashing down, he screamed and wailed in misery.

He would never see the man he loved again. He would never get to tell him.

And than, even heavier than the idea of not getting to lay in Mako’s arms at night, murmuring about love, the sense of loneliness bared down on him, and he collapsed to the ground, and it felt like he couldn’t breath.

It was over, this is it. Nothing is worth it anymore. He curled up on his side, sobbing and wailing, barely able to breath.

Jamison was alone again.  
\--

He stared up at the king, face blank, eyes dull, as he listened to him talk on and on about how his robots did so well in war, wouldn’t they do so good as other helping hands in the castle? He just numbly nodded, “yes your highness” he’d drawl emotionlessly and then leave.

It felt like he hadn’t slept in years, ever since reading that letter but mere weeks ago he felt so dull and empty. He went to the local graveyard, nearly three days after the letter arrived to ruin his life, and there he found Mako’s grave. It was simple, but nice, had a small pig engraved on it. Mako would of loved it. According to the grave, Mako died just a mere week before Jamison had finished his bots. Jamison had cried so hard at that, if only he’d been a little he could of had Mako off the front lines, if only he’d been faster he could of told Mako he loved him, he could be happy with him.

He wiped the fresh tears from his eyes before they even fall, and he heaves himself up onto Rutherlind, patting the horse's neck before cantering home.

If he was being honest, nothing ever felt the same any more. Everything was duller, darker, nothing felt worth it. Jamison remembered when his mother died, when his father died, he remembers when when many of his siblings died, and he remembers he did not feel like he does now. He feels as if someone had carved out his insides, and filled him up cotton. He feels unreal, numb and foggy, like the hours don’t really pass him by, and instead it’s all just a sick fucking dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Mako will be there, and he’ll have a little ring to symbolize him as Mako’s, and they’ll share soft little morning kisses, and make love at night, and everything will be amazing.

But, those are just the delusions of a mad man, he supposes. He knows he must be mad, because he feels like he’s gone crazy, how every little thing makes him think of Mako, how every day he wakes up and he lays there in silence, and for but a moment he thinks he’s going to hear Mako’s sweet rumbling voice greeting him good morning, the smell of a wonderful breakfast cooking, to greet him, to tell him the war is over, and everything is perfect.

Except, the war is over and everything isn’t perfect.

It’s fucking miserable, and he’s alone.  
\--

Time passed to fast, the world went round, spring became summer, became fall, became winter, became spring again, and Jamison barely noticed the passage of time, it all happened to fast and yet not fast enough, he spent his holidays alone, getting drunk as fuck and thinking what it would be like if Mako was here to share it with him. He spent his birthday sobbing against Mako’s grave, drinking large swigs between the desperate cries. It never stopped hurting, and he had no one. God know the king didn’t care he could barely sleep three nights a week, that his work seemed pointless now.

He kept going, and he kept pretending, in the public eye, like everything was okay. But his eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights and god knows he saw thing from the corners of his eyes due to the exhaustion, god knows he worked himself to the bone.

When Jamison vlew his arm off, he had hoped he was dying. He hoped he wasn’t going to live, but fate is cruel and she decided the messenger would come by today and find him laying on his side in a puddle of his own blood.

He sat in a hospital alone for years, with the same good old doctor looking after him, and he watched the door for the first five days, as if expecting Mako to suddenly lumber in, and offer him comfort. But alas, it did not happen, it could not happen. She, he healed, and he began to work, began to put himself together, and a little over a year later Jamison Junkenstien limped back up to his home, alone and determined.

He was going to get the respect. The attention, the love he deserved, and maybe it won’t come from Mako, but it’ll come from someone, and he’s going to work for it. He’s never, ever, going to give up again, even if it kills him.

He grabs Mako’s letter from his desk, and he takes in a deep breath, and he gives it a very gentle kiss, a soft promise of “maybe someday” and gently put it back down, closing it in the protection of his journal and he turns around staring at all his robotic parts.

Jamison will get what he deserves, even if it kills him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome home, sweety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than normal, but hey I like causing some more suspense then I do already.

He’d snapped when it started, the mad scramble to dig up that gargantuan grave, tittering under his breath as he threw dirt over his shoulder, deeper and deeper into the ground. It wasn’t hard to find Mako’s body, or what was left of it, maybe if he’d been more rested, less frantic, he would of stopped then and there, but he didn’t, he piled those gigantic bones and fleshy bits into his cart, finding the head was his favorite thing, he swore he could make out Mako’s face and he cooed at it, pressed it to his cheek, and carried it home as he sat on Rutherlind.

It had been to much, today, the burning hollow loneliness, the disrespect of a town that saw him as little more than a whore’s son, the callousness of the king who cared naught for the man who’d won a war for him, provided him with every service he asked for, but most importantly the grief. Today it seemed to much, cause him such despair he could not think of anything but his sweet Mako on his way home, and how he missed him.

It was a little too easy to start putting him together, he had to open his skull, remove the scalp, to look at his brain, ad oh what luck was it that somehow it had, mostly, survived all these years. He set about preserving the important things, anything that had to go inside the expanse muscle and fat he had to put together. Then came the mass grave robbing, he needed flesh, and hair, Mako’s hair had deteriorated, such a little amount left, and Jamison felt pain when his face wouldn’t fit back on correctly. So he found him a new one, one he knew his Mako would love, oh yes he always did love pigs didn’t he? Branding terror onto his belly had been and impulse, he;d been thinking of the king, thinking of asking his lover to hurt him, when he remembered, part of this, was about giving something he made freedom, yes he wanted his Mako to have freedom.

He was months into the resurrection process when he realized that maybe what came back wouldn’t be his Mako, and that brought the misery and grief right back to the surface. So instead, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, he started calling it his monster, his creation. It was easier, that way, to disconnect if what came back was not his Mako.

When the witch came to him, there had been no need for a second thought, he’d give anything, even if the chances were slim, to bring his love back to him.

Watching the breath pull up and into his lungs, watching him fling himself up and scream, gave him the best feeling in the world, and their eyes met for but a moment before that hulking form was up and out the door, the Witch and her servant close behind the good doctor, cackling and shouting with utter glee.

That night, the town that had so long forsaken him burn. That night Aldersbrunn fell, and the good doctor could not be happier. When his monster came back, heavy lumbering footsteps approaching him, he didn’t know what to expect at first, what to think. He could tell that the thought process was slower than original, a side effect from being so long deceased, he’s certain, and from the electrocution no doubt. But the moment he spoke Jamison felt tears, those thick pig lips moving to rumble out with such love and compassion, a soft loud “Jamison.” before that big hand pointed at him. He nodded, wild white hair bouncing as his monster lumbered over and hugged him, tight and close, and Jamison hugged back.

Mako was home.

Mako was home and Jamison felt alive again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the Prequel.

The witch brought him many bodies and people to experiment on, most of them kills from his monster. Her favor was building her an army, helping her invent new monstrosities for the world to fear. He agreed, so long as he got to keep his Mako. He was a little slower than before, his brain took longer to process things and form words, but other than that he was the same old Mako that Jamison had fell in love with it. Well, emotionally, physically he had his differences, but that wasn't important to him.

What was, on the other hand, important to him was the body the Witch had deposited before him some few weeks ago. This boy looked eerily similar to him, all the way down to the missing teeth. He hadn't realized the resemblance until he’d finished stitching together the body, small pieces and parts all painstakingly gathered. It was a long process, much of the boy had been smoldered and he had a lot of chunks of flesh that needed to be put back together, but what the Witch wanted she got. Now though, as he stares at the recently finished body on his table he feels cold, and sick.

He looks almost exactly like him, but his hair isn’t shock white, rather the pale blond his hair used to be, he’s missing the same limbs, he can trace out the pattern of old scars, the same teeth, the same toes. He trembles as he slowly puts the mask over the body’s face, the Witch watching from above as he attaches the prosthesis she requested he make for it.

He takes in a deep breath and approaches the switch in the wall, Mako softly leaning in to nuzzle him lovingly, easing some of the queasy feeling in his stomach, and he smile weakly. He takes in one last deep breath and pulls the switch down, the lightning strikes from the crystal into the body, and the reaction is different the what he'd seen before, the strike bursts the body into flames, the back arches and an ungodly, barley human sounding shriek bursts into the air, Junkenstien stumbles to pulls the switch off, trembling as his eyes frantically dance over the figure on his table.

He’s gone limp again, hay from the top of his head sizzling a bit. He twitches a bit, the flames flicker, before he goes still again. The Witch hums with and emotion Junkenstien doesn’t understand, maybe something bordering indifferent disappointment. She looks to Reaper and nods, and Junkenstein is confused as the pumpkin headed servant picks up the scarecrow like body, nods once to the good doctor and puffs away in smoke.

He looks up to the Witch, shaking, before mumbling “Who was that…?”

And she smiles as she stares down at him, floating on her broom, before she lifts one of her nails to inspect them “I do believe his name was Jamison Fawkes.”

He’s not sure why, but Junkenstien feels a shock of ice go through his body, and he can’t help but shiver as he stares up at her with wide eyes.

\--  
Reaper glanced at the field before him, it’s dark at night, it’s a farmland, yes it’s the correct one, it must be, she’s never wrong after all. He quietly walks toward the middle of the field, a wooden cross post in one hand, the limp scarecrow like body in the other. He barely makes any noise as he digs the beam into the ground, pulling a length of rope from the shadows of the wheat field around him, before he set about binding the small lithe form to the post.

He steps back to stare at the body, whose souls is still trying to come back too, for another moment or two before he turns and begins to melt into the shadows, letting them pull him back in time, to his own respective era.

He appears again near the Witch, looks up to her and nods.

The job is done.

Now it’s only a matter of time. Soon, yes very soon, the vessel will be ready. The Witch smiles toothily at him, and nods her head in approval.

With not another word she waves one of her delicate hands, and the world seems to melt into nothing, the walls dripping down like candle wax to reveal a quickly growing void the swallows them up whole, terror forming in the face of Junkenstien.

Now they wait.

Things will fall into place, soon enough.

She’s never wrong, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU GUYS FOR READING THIS! Anyone who isn't already, I'd suggest checking out Itches and Stitches, as it's directly connected to this story.


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